Health Kick
by Gary Merchant
Summary: Melanie Bush has the Doctor on a fitness regime.


HEALTH KICK

"16-17-18-19…" Mel continued to count the seconds on her stopwatch as the Doctor pedalled away furiously on the exercise bike. How she had cajoled him into agreeing to this fitness regime, he couldn't quite recall. Right now he was puffing with the exertion of muscles not used to such regular and strenuous exercise.

"…27-28-29-30. And rest!" Mel said brightly. The Doctor breathed a heartfelt sigh as he clambered off the bike, his legs feeling like rubber. This was not how a Time Lord was meant to live. "Right, Doctor – five minutes rest, then it'll be time for your cross-country run through the TARDIS."

"Are you sure?" the Doctor gasped. "I did that yesterday."

Mel gave a smile of encouragement. "And in a time of forty minutes. Not bad, but surely you can beat that?"

"Not before it beats me first," he said under his breath.

It had been like this for the last three weeks, and despite all his best efforts, the Doctor's arguments against this health regime had fallen on deaf ears. He'd gone along with it for the first week, thinking that it would be just a passing fad. By the middle of the second week the Doctor was less convinced of this, and now he was sure his TARDIS was turning into one of those health food shops. All his favourite foods – oh, how he longed for a juicy steak, or failing that a Monsterburger with jumbo fries - had now been replaced with a selection of fruit and salads, to be washed down with healthy doses of carrot juice.

"You'll thank me for this," she had told him, after leaving him to sweat it out in the sauna. A sauna? The Doctor was sure he had never come across this room before. And where had all that gym equipment sprung from? He couldn't deny he was feeling lighter, except that it was light-headedness, due to lack of food. As the steam rose in the sauna, the Doctor realised he would have to take some decisive action.

The Doctor was breathing hard after yet another session on the exercise bike. A fourth week had passed, and Mel was guiding him from one end of the console room to the other. "Come on, Doctor," she ordered. "Onto the scales."

"Oh, Mel," he grumbled. "Is all this really necessary?"

"Of course it is," she replied. "Don't you want to be fit and healthy?"

"I'll collapse from having a fit if I'm not careful," he warned. But there was no chance of Mel heeding his words as he was all but forced him onto the scales. Mel crouched down to read the dial, but said nothing. Instead she looked up at the Doctor, with an expression he couldn't read.

He flinched away from that stare. Nothing, not even a visit from the Spanish Inquisition could compare against it. And no one ever expected them.

Night hours were clearly designated in the TARDIS, and in his room the Doctor tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Finally in exasperation, he threw back the covers and pulled on his slippers and dressing gown. He could feel his stomach rumbling from lack of food, and a midnight visit to the kitchen was the only option.

This was the latest in a series of midnight visits. As far as the Doctor was concerned it was the only way to beat the insistent pangs of hunger. And if he was quiet about it, then Mel need never know. He knew she meant well, but there was only so much carrot juice this particular Time Lord could take. He needed proper food.

He closed the door quietly before making the short walk, taking care not to make a sound as he passed by Mel's room. Arriving at the kitchen, the Doctor padded through the half lit room toward the larder. As expected, it had been securely padlocked, but a few seconds manipulation with the sonic screwdriver had taken care of that. "I must have missed my calling," the Doctor smiled. "I could have made quite a living as a safecracker. Now, what delights have we here?" he wondered, sliding the door open.

The sharp beam of light from inside the larder blinded the Doctor for a moment, forcing him back. Once his eyes adjusted he could see the owner of the flashlight. "Mel! You could have given me a double heart attack!"

"And it'd be no more than you deserved," she scolded, stepping out from the spacious larder. "I knew you'd been up to something, Doctor – those scales showed you were four pounds heavier than before." She shook her head. "And I thought we were making some progress."

The Doctor gaped. "Progress? Mel, the birth of a solar system, the petals on a flower or the latest staging of The Barber of Seville - now that's progress. Somehow I don't think you could class this torture you've been putting me through in quite the same vein."

He immediately regretted his choice of words. Mel was clearly upset by his frankness, and he moderated his tone. "I know you were only thinking of my well being, but don't you think that all the excitement that goes on around us keeps us both fairly healthy?"

"Oh, I suppose so," she said, admitting defeat. "There's always at least one instance where we're running from one end of a corridor to the other."

The Doctor noticed a slight smile there, and gave Mel a gentle hug. "That's better." He glanced down at his waistline. "Four pounds, did you say?"

"Fraid so," she sighed.

"Hmm." He considered for a moment. "Very well. I promise to be more discerning about what I eat in future, on the one condition that the exercise bike goes back into storage. Do we have a deal, Miss Bush?"

She looked up at him and grinned. "Deal, Doctor."

"Excellent," he beamed. "Now…" An idea suddenly struck him as he marched out from the kitchen in the direction of the console room.

By the time Mel had caught up with him he was already tapping in some coordinates. "Where are we going at this hour?"

He grinned. "All this activity has given me a real appetite. And there's only one delicacy that will satisfy my taste buds."

"Oh no," Mel realised. "Not the Greasy Galactica on Ursa Prime."

"Where else?" The Doctor nodded with glee. "I really fancy a Monsterburger – with jumbo fries, of course."


End file.
